


So Honey, Sing

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Neck Kissing, Or At Least He Would Like To Think So, Post-Coital Cuddling, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Sex, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: He still heard the songs. Bards throughout the Continent sang them; and Geralt found himself having to retire early for the night each time another rendition of Toss a Coin started to belt through the tavern or inn.They weren’t Jaskier.Jaskier’s words would come out of their mouths, and it turned Geralt’s stomach.None of them were Jaskier.But his bard is back at his side. Geralt is intent on keeping him there. And Jaskier doesn’t seem like he’ll be moving away any time soon.__Alternative Title, and Hot Take of 2020: Geralt of Rivia has a Jaskier-Making-Sounds-Kink (and has a slight crisis of Feelings)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 40
Kudos: 1205





	So Honey, Sing

He can count on one hand the number of times where Jaskier is actually, completely quiet.

During their first few months together, silence was the only thing Geralt seemed to want for. Without asking for it, he had acquired a companion for the road. One moment he was wandering through the Continent from contract to contract alone; then he wasn’t.

Jaskier talked: _a lot_. He seemed to make it his own mission to fill the silence as soon as it settled over them. Even when he wasn’t talking, he would just make noises; strumming chords on his lute, humming along. And when he wasn’t doing any of that, he would _sigh_. All of the time.

In the times where Geralt was on his own again, through either his own fault or not, the bard’s constant rambling about something or other that was had become a welcomed hum in the background was now gone. A deafening silence sat over him instead. And it chilled his blood and made his chest tight.

It wasn’t until Jaskier was gone did he realise how used he had grown to it. Walking on main roads where the only thing to listen to was the rhythmic clop of Roach’s hooves against the dirt, he began to notice little things in a desperate effort to fill the silence: birds singing and soaring overhead, a passing cart carrying tradesmen, exchanging the latest gossip about a nearby royal family. On one occasion he caught himself humming a tune; one that seemed pointless, just a string of notes after another, until he realised it was one of Jaskier’s songs.

And to this day he swears that even Roach laughed at him.

He still heard the songs. Bards throughout the Continent sang them; and Geralt found himself having to retire early for the night each time another rendition of _Toss a Coin_ started to belt through the tavern or inn.

They weren’t Jaskier.

Jaskier’s words would come out of their mouths, and it turned Geralt’s stomach.

None of them were _Jaskier_.

But his bard is back at his side. Geralt is intent on keeping him there. And Jaskier doesn’t seem like he’ll be moving away any time soon.

Yennefer has Ciri. The girl has magic coursing through her veins just as easily as blood does: magic that she hasn’t been able to temper or control just yet. He hasn’t seen it for himself, but in their short time together before finding Yennefer and Jaskier again, Ciri told him all about it.

Yennefer has a house in one of the more affluent districts of the town – because _of course she does_. He doesn’t think of how she managed to acquire it, or even who from, but it means that both her and Ciri are well out of earshot of a certain bard and his affinity for making his pleasure known.

At a particularly well-aimed thrust, Jaskier throws his head back. A groan wrenches out of him. “Just like that,” he moans, tightening his legs around Geralt’s hips. “Like that, _fuck_.”

He’s been wringing noises out of his lark for a while now. Jaskier’s ability to talk only gets worse during moments like these. But the words that come out of him are pure filth; words that send a tremor up through Geralt’s spine. Jaskier has been plying him with them ever since he got back. His bard has a siren’s voice; but combine that with a sly coy smile and a knowing look, then Geralt is truly lost whenever the bard is within a mile radius of him.

Hooded eyes look back at him. A small smile curled along the length of his lip – one that refuses to budge no matter how fiercely Geralt kisses him. There’s no winning with him. If he tries to ignore him, or gods forbid say that he’s too tired, then he’ll pout and sulk. If he gives in, Jaskier will just have more evidence to assure himself that he truly does have Geralt wrapped around his finger.

His hands skim over Geralt’s shoulders, sliding down to the Witcher’s chest. One hand settles over his heart; Jaskier’s fingers curl in slightly, nails just resting against the skin. The other ventures lower, placed just against Geralt’s abdomen, feeling muscles move and flex underneath his palm.

One of them had the idea to stuff a pillow between the headboard and the wall. Geralt didn’t see the point in it at first, but he’s never aware of his own strength at the best of times. And how much stronger he can get if a certain bard keeps goading him with hooded eyes and a slight fucking smirk painted across his face.

And Jaskier _will not_ have the madam of the house knocking on their door, telling them to be quiet or, gods forbid, kick them out.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s hands, pinning them on either side of his head.

Words pour out of the bard’s mouth. None of them make any particular sense, anymore. He occasionally gathers _fuck_ , _harder_ , _more_. But everything in between is just frantic, gasping nonsense.

Geralt sets his lips against the column of the bard’s neck, nipping at the skin there, but burying his own grunts and noises. Jaskier tilts his head back. Choked-off moans litter the air. Not loud enough to seep down through the floorboards and bother those drinking below them. Not loud enough to creep through the walls of the rooms next door. But loud enough to keep whatever stalks around inside Geralt’s chest content.

Jaskier’s fingers curl, brushing against his own. He could get out of the hold. Geralt’s touch can be firm, but it’s never harsh. If the bard truly wanted to get out, he could.

But with how firmly Jaskier’s legs are hooked around his waist, one heel pressing into the small of his back, encouraging and aiding each grind of his hips, it doesn’t seem like the bard wants to move anywhere anytime soon.

Jaskier does, though, turn his head. His lips brush against the shell of Geralt’s ear. What words come are rasped, but manage to punch him right in the gut.

“You feel so good. _Fuck._ Will you finish in me?” Jaskier asks. Even without removing himself from Jaskier’s neck, he can tell that the bastard is sporting a coy smirk. His bard knows how to talk – and he knows how to strum together words to get a rise out of Geralt. Jaskier’s teeth scrape against his earlobe. “I know you want to. You’re getting close, aren’t you?”

“Jaskier-”

The bard tilts his head, letting Geralt have the whole column of his neck. “I want you to. Fuck, I want you to.” He’s been meeting the Witcher thrust for thrust since getting inside him almost _gods only know_ however long ago.

But now, Jaskier splays out his legs as much as he’s able to. The movement gets Geralt deeper. A moan wrenches itself out of both of them. Glancing up at the bard, he can see the man’s eyes slip closed. His tightens his hold on Jaskier’s wrists.

“Geralt,” he gasps. “Please. I’m close.”

He doesn’t move from the bard’s neck. Even in the low light of the room, he can see bruises and nicks starting to come through. “Then come. ‘m not stopping you.”

“I want you to finish with me, you clod.” Jaskier’s cock is between them, wholly forgotten about but leaking all over the plain of his own stomach. When the Witcher doesn’t respond, content to just keep going with what’s he’s been doing, Jaskier turns his head, nudging Geralt away from his neck. “I want you to come in me.”

Jaskier has gained this innate ability to control him with words. He’s as much as a siren as Geralt has ever encountered.

With words and noises and the fact that Jaskier keeps tightening himself around Geralt, it doesn’t take long for the bard to get what he wants. Geralt’s hips slam against him one last time before he stills. Warmth floods through his whole body, curling his toes and lifting his head from the pillow. Geralt lines the length of the bard’s neck with kisses, switching from gentle pressing of lips to teeth.

With his hold on him loosened, Jaskier slips his wrists free. He pats Geralt’s shoulder. “Right, this is lovely and all,” he grunts, “but you’re quite heavy. Get off of me before I suffocate.”

With a huff of a laugh Geralt moves, all but collapsing on to the other side of the bed. He keeps close to Jaskier, reaching out and throwing an arm over the bard’s waist. Jaskier’s hand settles over his forearm, fingers ghosting over his skin. Geralt watches his chest heave, his breathing slowly starting to even out. A small smile is still splayed over his face.

He watches Jaskier pad over to the other side of the room. In place of a bathtub, the innkeep offered them a small basin of hot water and some clean towels. Jaskier has his own collection fo oils and salts because _of course he does._ And Geralt will make quips about it all he likes, but he appreciates the smell of orange blossom or lavender buried in the bard’s pores, or the way his skin feels after being freshly scrubbed with ocean salts.

Jaskier wrings a cloth, making quick work of cleaning his abdomen and chest. At a particularly long stretch of silence, he glances over his shoulder. A small frown creases into his brow. “What?”

Geralt shrugs. “What?”

“ _What_? Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re nice to look at.”

Jaskier hums, seemingly mulling the words over. He grabs a different cloth, tossing it haphazardly in the vague direction of the bed. By the time they’re both mostly cleaned up, and Jaskier has burrowed back beneath the sheets and down-feather duvet, another bout of silence settled over them.

It’s not one to be filled, though. Not with mundane questions or comments about the weather or the affairs of things in the world. He’s had enough of that with whores in towns and cities, biding more time for more coin.

It’s a comfortable sort of silence.

Jaskier settles next to him; an easy fit, as Geralt lifts his arm when the bard is close enough. When he shuffles near, lying over and claiming one side of the Witcher for himself, Geralt wraps his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders.

Sleep will always be shy of him. It’s barely out of reach, but he’s happy enough to just wait for it to come to him. Staring up at the wooden beams of the roof, he lets his fingers sketch idle, unrecognisable patterns along the ridge of Jaskier’s spine.

The contract that brought him here seems like it happened years ago. The town had a selkie problem. An oxymoron if ever he heard one. Selkies don’t cause problems. Humans do. Apparently some fool of a farmer thought it wise, in order to keep his new bride from the water, to hide her coat in the nearby forest. But selkies need the ocean like humans need air. The poor girl looked close to death by the time Geralt wandered into the farmhouse.

After spending an hour or so trudging through matted thicket and undergrowth, he managed to find the coat and return it.

The selkie didn’t talk. He didn’t think that she knew how to. But the look on her face as he handed the coat back was enough to tell him everything. She left the man for the coast, with a faint promise that she’ll be back once the ocean’s water had brought some life back into her.

And she didn’t leave him alone. There’s a healthy, chubby-cheeked baby boy back in the farmhouse for him. He’ll be too busy looking after the sprog to really notice the days going by, waiting for his wife to come back.

It’s an odd change. Saving a life, rather than taking it. Then again, he never really encountered a selkie who wanted to put a knife through him. Ones that were aggravated definitely threw things, sure. But he never knew a bad-natured selkie. Only their bad-natured mates once they realised, with a justifiable horror, that it was _their doing_ that made their loved ones so sick.

It played on his mind the entire walk back to the inn; but a coy-eyed Jaskier, armed with oils and a fine-toothed comb sent any thoughts that didn’t concern him away. He left the selkie and her husband and child behind him, back in that farmhouse that sits on a hill overlooking the nearby sea.

A hum of noise floats up from downstairs. People are still drinking and singing, with no intention of stumbling back to their rooms or homes just yet. At one point in their journeys together, he worried about people hearing them. Vile words and hissed curses under people’s breath were just as familiar to him as Jaskier’s voice was. But the bard didn’t have to experience it. If he kept a reputable distance, he could avoid having his name spat by ingrates.

Not every territory was particularly welcoming of his kind – or anyone who would warm his bed. This town gladly housed him, though. The farmer was one of the key providers of beef and milk to the town: and if he was struck down with grief, where else would the town or its neighbouring villages get its food.

Jaskier has lapsed into one of his rare silences. His eyes, bluer than the summer skies Geralt used to see over Kaer Morhen when he was a pup, scan the expanse of Geralt’s chest. Sleep is something that stays to the shadows of the room, pressed up against the walls, but will stalk forward the second he lets it.

Something must be starting to pull at the bard. His hooded eyes slip closed every couple of minutes or so. But before his head can roll to one side or another, he blinks awake, and keeps to his scouting mission.

Scars litter the Witcher’s skin. He lost count of how many he had a long time ago; and he’s gathered more since. Jaskier seems keen, though, on mapping each one of them out. Long fingers skim along the knotted ridges of scars that never quite healed right. Ones that he got that he had to treat himself, with no healer or mage in sight until the next town over. Others, ones that _were_ treated, are just simple bright lines against his skin.

Some of them are more sensitive than others: and Jaskier knows the location of all of them. When Jaskier’s fingers ghost over one, Geralt quells the shiver that shakes up through him. “I swear you didn’t have this many the last time,” Jaskier hums. His fingers follow the fault line of one scar to another: one that sits on a pectoral.

Geralt doesn’t so much as look at the scars, but more at Jaskier’s fingers. They’re long; good at plucking lute strings and skimming over skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. A low hum rumbles out of his chest.

Jaskier sets his chin on Geralt’s collarbone. “I might just have to start wrapping you in cotton,” he mutters. A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lip.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but the bard must catch his meaning. _If you even suggest it again, I’ll kill you._

A lazy smile settles over Jaskier’s face. He’s seen it before: a contented smile that comes after nice things. It appears after a tankard of properly brewed ale, or a hearty dinner after rationing on the road; at the promise of an inn’s bed after walking for days or weeks on end.

Or after a particularly good fuck.

Geralt reaches up, tucking some of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear. It’s grown longer in the last few weeks. A smattering of a beard is joining it. Though, they’ve stayed in a good number of inns and taverns in the last couple of weeks, and not once did he pick up a blade to cut his hair or shave.

And Geralt isn’t complaining. The look suits him. If he looks closely, he can see the faintest beginnings of grey hairs starting to poke through. That’s when something cold starts to creep into his chest.

Why the thought of it never hit before still perplexes him. But now, with the bard back by his side, it’s only in these quiet moments that his thoughts run wild. He avoids most interactions with people _because_ of the fact that they’ll wither away and die.

Jaskier gently pats a hand on the Witcher’s chest. “Where did you go, just then?” his says, his voice barely more than a rumble.

His bard was always good at reading people.

“Nowhere,” Geralt answers, hooking two fingers under Jaskier’s chin, lifting his head slightly to press a kiss to his lips.

Jaskier hums, opening his mouth to slightly to let their tongues brush against each other. When he pulls back, he sets their foreheads together, staying close. “If you’re still moping about what happened on that mountain,” he says lowly, “I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

“Good luck with that.” Geralt nudges Jaskier’s nose with his own. “And I wasn’t. I just...”

Jaskier lifts a brow. A silent prompt to continue.

Geralt sighs. “I was just thinking about you, I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Jaskier pulls back slightly. “You either were or weren’t.”

“I was,” Geralt amends. The fingers skirting over the bumps of Jaskier’s spine still. “I...I just can’t believe that you’re back here, with me. That I managed to find you again, talk to you, convince you to give me your forgiveness-”

“-It’s _my_ forgiveness to give,” Jaskier sighs, weary that this must be the hundredth time that this very conversation has been brought up. But it’s an ever-present whisper in the back of his mind. Sometimes it tells him that Jaskier didn’t actually mean it, when he said he forgave him. Sometimes it’s that Jaskier will just leave in the middle of the night, and Geralt will be faced with the decision of trying to find one person on a Continent that stretches on and on for leagues in either direction.

Jaskier cups his cheek. His thumb skims along the ridge of his cheekbone, gently, but enough that a small tremor runs through Geralt’s spine. “I’m here,” he says firmly, “with you. And I’ll never leave.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t talk much with people – a fact that many have just come to accept over the years. But he doesn’t actually look at people either. Or not in any way that matters. When he looks at Jaskier, a million different things stand out – the small flecks of gold in his eyes, the scattering of freckles over his nose. He leans into Jaskier’s touch. “I know. But sometimes it just...doesn’t seem real.”

Jaskier plants a chaste kiss to his lips. “Well it is,” he says firmly. “You won’t be able to get rid of me that easily, Geralt of Rivia. I’m with you now forever.”

A huff of a laugh escapes him. “Gods have mercy on me.”

“Oh, they can’t help you now,” Jaskier grins, leaning forward for a longer, deeper kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: "So you said you were going to put smut in this, yes?"  
> Me: "Yes."  
> Me: "That requires you to write it."  
> Me: "I know."  
> Me: "Okay...so where is it?"  
> Me: *gestures vaguely to a few lines* "Will this do."  
> Me: *head in hands* "Sure..."
> 
> tumblrs  
> yourqueenforayear (personal nonsense and terrible humour) | agoodgoddamnshot (writing)


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